


continental grounds

by Himmelreich



Category: John Wick (Movies), バチカン奇跡調査官 | Vatican Miracle Examiner
Genre: Crossover, Gen, M/M, but they're fun movies 10/10 would recommend, don't ask me I don't know either, you probably don't have to have seen the John Wick movies to understand this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himmelreich/pseuds/Himmelreich
Summary: You’re staying at theInterContinentalnear Time Square then?No,The Continentaloff Broadway,Hiraga replies, almost instantly.Lauren unblinkingly stares at the screen until his eyes begin to sting, but the text doesn’t change. It has to be an honest mistake, a misunderstanding of unfortunately potentially lethal proportions, he thinks, because even with the Archbishop’s tendency to send his two favourite employes on the more risky missions, he certainly wouldn’t go that far.If Lauren actually believed in God, this would be a prime moment to start praying for Hiraga and his subordinate colleague’s ignorant souls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meguri_aite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/gifts).



> Where would I be without you, my friend, and your brilliant ideas? Here’s to you, and Winston and Saul, the non-dads of the two respective fandoms, who spawned this entire thing. 
> 
> Note: This is set in a future where John sorted out the entire pesky little “killed a man on Continental grounds and pissed off the High Table” thing and is back in business (because come on, we all know he will, amirite Winston?).

New York City welcomes them with heavy rainstorms and overcast skies swallowing up the tops of the skyscrapers in a thick layer of grey clouds. The poor weather conditions delayed their landing by over forty minutes, forcing their plane to fly circles above the city until it got clearance to descend. Which in and by itself wasn’t a problem, only it led to Roberto seeing himself required to divide his attention between the hysterical elder lady to his right in dire need of spiritual assistance, convinced that at any moment lightning striking the plane would make them crash into the ocean, and Hiraga to his left, who grew increasingly green of complexion and monosyllabic with every additional lap and turbulence they went through.

 

“How are you feeling?” Roberto asks now, letting himself drop into the cheap plastic seat next to his partner and holding out a ridiculously overpriced bottle of water he got from one of the airport kiosks.

Hiraga takes it with a grateful, albeit weak smile. He’s still unsettlingly pale, his skin cold where Roberto’s fingers brush against his, for once without gloves seeing how they had to provide fingerprints to the US immigration authorities, but at least he no longer looks about to throw up. This is is a definitive improvement to just earlier, when he had nearly passed out queuing for passport control. Roberto ended up playing the “We’re emissaries of the Vatican State” card to pass through the channel usually reserved for diplomats and shorten the procedure, even if that wasn’t quite legal, probably. Well, if they had any complaints, they were free to file them with the Archbishop.

“A bit better, thank you. You’d think I’d get used to this at some point, but no such luck.”

“I’m not sure motion sickness is something you can combat with desensibilisation,” Roberto says, gently patting his friend on the back. “I think you’re doing really well.”

“I just hope the ride into the city will be smooth and quick.”

His tone is doubtful, and from all that Roberto knows about New York traffic, he can guess why.

“They said they’d send someone to come pick us up, but I haven’t received any messages so far. Maybe they’re also delayed due to the storm.”

“I don’t mind a short break of not moving, to be honest.”

 

They sit in silence for a bit after that, the constant indistinct chatter and rattling of suitcases on the tiled floor washing over them as steady, lulling background noise. Once, Roberto catches a child stare at them from across the hall, half hidden behind the giant and frankly offensively gaudily patterned suitcase of her mother who seems busy yelling at someone named Juan on her phone over being late from what he can make out.

Hiraga and him probably made for a strange sight to a child, dressed all in black and overseeing an impressive stack of equally ominous luggage. He leaves it to Hiraga to send one of his winning smiles her way, with the success that she wanders over to him, tugging at his robes and begins to tell him a story in Spanish, seemingly undeterred by the fact that he replies in Latin much to Roberto’s amusement. It’s a good few minutes before the mother finally catches on, dragging her daughter away under profuse apologies and crossing herself. At least by now, Hiraga’s face has regained some colour as he laughs it off.

 

“Excuse me, Sirs,” someone addresses them in that moment, and Roberto turns to see a man in an impeccably well-tailored suit approach them, cap tucked under his arm. “I believe I was sent to pick you up. My sincere apologies for running late, there was an accident on the bridge that caused severe traffic jams.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Looking out at the stopping zone right at the terminal exit, Roberto can make out a sleek black limousine, and he raises his brows in surprise. Definitely not a shabby taxi, then.

“Please be careful with the luggage,” Hiraga says as the man puts the cap back on and reaches out to pick up some of their suitcases. “Some of my equipment is volatile.”

The man doesn’t even so much as blink in surprise.

“That goes without saying, Sir.”

“Please tell me you don’t have anything that could actually explode upon transport,” Roberto murmurs as they follow the man through the automatic sliding doors to the car, dragging the remaining luggage along.

“Well, not if everything was properly handled by airport staff,” Hiraga replies blithely. “With chemicals, it’s always just a question of what ends up mixed up.”

Roberto decides not to ask further in consideration of his nerves.

 

The ride into town is unbelievably smooth, and Roberto spends most of the time peering out the tinted car windows. The downpour has let up, and the way the city emerges across the bridge, the glittering lit-up buildings slated against the darkening stormy sky, is appropriately dramatic. Hiraga helps himself to more mineral water from the built-in minibar. This was definitely in a very differently league from their last assignment, where the means of transport from the airfield to the small local parish which claimed to be site of a Virgin Mary apparition had included a stretch travelled by horse cart. Not that Roberto couldn’t appreciate the variety, but after an exhausting transat flight, indulging in this sort of luxury seemed justifiable.

They pull to a stop at the corner of an old and gorgeous Beaux-Arts skyscraper, and Roberto doesn’t even have time enough to ask why before the back door is opened by a young man in wine-red hotel livery.

“Please do proceed to check-in, Sirs, we will send up your baggage right away,” he announces.

“This is unexpected,” Hiraga remarks as they walk up the steps towards the entrance, his head tilted back to glance up the imposing facade. The golden lettering just above the doorway simply reads _C_ , and just from the entrance hall alone with its polished marble columns, high and arching stucco ceiling and tastefully modern leather seats, Roberto can tell that this clearly is a hotel ranking in the five stars or above category. The smartly dressed people sitting in the longue barely spare them more than a cursory glance, and there is soft jazz music playing over some high quality speakers.

“It certainly seems the archdiocese can’t be terribly short on funds,” Roberto replies, going for dry humour, but he can’t help the genuine amazement at the place seeping into his voice.

“Do you think they’re trying to bribe us into writing a more favourable report regarding their suspected miracle case?” Hiraga’s frowning with the usual mixture of confusion and disappointment he displays whenever potential corruption within the church comes up.

“Well, we don’t know that just yet,” Roberto assuages him. “Plus, you’re not someone who would fall for this kind of trick, so I’m certain your judgement will remain unclouded.”

“We should begin worrying if they start gifting you expensive books,” Hiraga says.

 

Roberto’s rebuttal goes unsaid, because at that moment, they reach the front desk, also cut from marble and manned by another impeccably dressed dark-skinned man who gives them an assessing glance from above his glasses.

“Welcome to the Continental, gentlemen,” he then greets them, voice smooth and tinted with an accent that has Roberto itch to ask where it’s from, but something about the man’s air tells him it’s somehow not a good idea. “We do apologise sincerely for the lateness in picking you up. If there’s anything we can offer you of our services as compensation free of charge, management would be glad to provide it.”

“Oh, it really was no big deal,” Hiraga argues with a warm smile but definitive intonation, and the man inclines his head slightly.

“Well, do keep it in mind. I have you booked in for a week, is that right?”

“It might take more, it might take less, it’s always hard to tell with our line of work. But a week sounds sensible enough for now, right, Hiraga?”

“I’d say so, yes.” Hiraga reaches for his bag. “As for check-in, do you need-”

“Your employers already handled the entire process in advance,” the receptionist interrupts him politely, sliding a key across the specular marble desk. “Your room is 718. I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.”

 

“Roberto, you have to come and have a look at this view! You can see the Chrysler Building from over here!”

Roberto puts down his laptop bag on the desk next to the door and walks around the partition to join Hiraga at the windows overlooking the street canyons of the city stretching out around them, the lights of the cars like a steady red and golden stream, the countless illuminated windows within the buildings forming flimmering patterns against the night sky. He catches Hiraga’s eyes in his reflection on the dark glass, and they’re brimming with genuine excitement. He smiles back fondly.

“It’s a beautiful sight,” he agrees.

Turning around, he takes in their room in full. It’s furnished in a pleasing balance of sophisticated ambiance fitting the building’s facade and modern touches, held in off-whites and pale greens. There’s only one bed, but it’s of generous size, so that would hardly be a problem, although he thinks it somewhat curious considering the archdiocese had booked the room for them.

Something catches his attention on the covers, and inspecting it more closely, he finds it’s a note written in beautiful cursive on high quality paper.

_I hope you’ll be able to accomplish your mission swiftly. J._

“That’ll probably be from Father Jenkins, the Archbishop’s aide,” Hiraga remarks, leaning in at his side to read the note. “I’ve talked to him before, he’s the one who collected and submitted the reports of the event to the Seat of Saints.”

Roberto hums in agreement, although something stirs in his mind upon looking at the note. The more he tries to focus on it, however, the more it keeps slipping out of focus, and so he sets the note aside on the desk to reinvestigate it the next day.

 

“We should probably try to go to sleep in timely fashion in order to curb the jetlag,” he suggests after checking his phone for the time. “We’re supposed report to the Archbishop’s office by ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“You can go shower first, I’ll let Lauren know we’ve arrived in the meantime.”

Hiraga is already in the process of setting up his laptop, and Roberto is left suppressing a laugh at his back. His partner’s earnestness in keeping his charge-slash-friend-slash-colleague in the loop was always endearing to watch, somehow.

“Tell Lauren I said hi,” he calls form over his shoulder, heading towards the bathroom. He can practically envision the boy’s lack of enthusiasm at that message, but really, he should get used it already.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dearest Lauren,_

 

 _I’m writing to tell you we’ve arrived in New York City with minor delays due to the rainstorms, but safe and sound. It appears as if this time, we’re staying at a high class hotel named_ Continental _rather than with a local mission or parish. I’m not fully convinced this isn’t an ill-advised attempt at bribing us, so I might end up troubling you with looking into the archdiocese's finances at some point in the future, but as for now, in dubio pro reo. I hope you are well._

 

_With kindest regards,_

_Hiraga_

 

_P. S.: Roberto sends his greetings as well._

 

Lauren clicks his tongue in annoyance at the pointless addendum. What little patience he has for this kind of talk runs even shorter than usual at four in the morning, and realising that fact has him even more annoyed at himself given that he knows fully well he stayed awake this long only to make sure he got to see Hiraga’s message the moment it came in. Well, it was just force of habit at this point, he tells himself.

He’s already hit reply, ready to simply write a short message saying he had understood, when he suddenly does a double take at one of the bits of information he had only really skimmed before.

He hesitates for a moment, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Maybe his memory was off, or no, that wasn’t it, because he never misremembered these kinds of things. It had to be a wild coincidence, then - the mere thought that it might not be was just too ridiculous. Still, he opens a search window regardless, running the name of the hotel through it before sending Hiraga a message in return.

 

_Hiraga,_

 

 _You’re staying at the_ InterContinental _near Time Square then?_

 

_Lauren_

 

 

_Dearest Lauren,_

 

 _No,_ The Continental _off Broadway_ , Hiraga replies, almost instantly.

 

Lauren unblinkingly stares at the screen until his eyes begin to sting, but the text doesn’t change. It has to be an honest mistake, a misunderstanding of unfortunately potentially lethal proportions, he thinks, because even with the Archbishop’s tendency to send his two favourite employes on the more risky missions, he certainly wouldn’t go that far.

If Lauren actually believed in God, this would be a prime moment to start praying for Hiraga and his subordinate colleague’s ignorant souls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not the place they were expecting, take two.

Ricardo Alvarez squints at the massive wooden cross mounted on the otherwise starkly naked wall above his narrow bed, frowning. It’s just as spartan as the rest of the place, nothing unnecessarily ornamental to it, just plain wood, its size large enough to probably crack open the head of the person sleeping below it should it ever come down during the night. It’s an unpleasant thought.

“Don’t you think this is weird?” he asks. A few seconds pass, and there’s no reply, so he turns around. He doesn’t even have to move from his spot to lean over and snap his fingers in front of Han’s face to draw his attention with how small the rooms is. “I’m talking to you, you bastard.”

Han remains unflappable where he’s sitting on his bed and just calmly continues loading his spare magazines. He only deigns to look up once he’s done and stashed them back in his suitcase.

 

“What’s that?”

“This entire place.” Ricardo gestures vaguely, encompassing all of their humble abode and the view from out the window facing the small garden behind the house where one of the friars is currently busy watering a flower bed of impressive dahlias. “I’ve heard stories of the New York Continental, and this sure ain’t it.”

“Dunno,” Han says, leaning back on his hands and shrugs. “Never been there.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Ricardo sighs, irritatedly rubbing at his neck below the collar. It might make for a very convenient disguise, the kind that got them access to any hospital, police precinct and often enough even prison with virtually no questions or need of proper identification, but hell if it wasn’t ever uncomfortable.

“Could be a new outpost,” Han suggests. He, for his part, looks like the get-up doesn’t bother him in the slightest. If anything, he makes it somehow look fashionable on him, something that annoys Ricardo as much as he deep down appreciates it.

“In a _convent_?”

“I know for a fact that there’s an actual Buddhist monastery in Thailand that hosts people under Continental rules. Wouldn’t be entirely unheard of, then.”

“S’ppose,” Ricardo admits, begrudgingly, and forces himself to stop messing with his clothes. Stealth and self-composure are vital to his job, and even when not out in public, he should at least try to keep his act together more.

He already almost lost his cool when the cheerful lady driving the shabby van who had picked them up at the airport didn’t stop singing along loudly to a CD of Christian rock. It were some of the longer 45 minutes of his life until she finally dropped them off at the doorstep of the outwardly unassuming Victorian building on 6th street.

“It’s just weird we’d get send here and not to the normal place. I haven’t heard anything about it not being operational anymore or nothing.”

“Maybe someone’s staying there our employer doesn’t want us to meet, so he picked this alternative.”

 

Ricardo ponders the possibility. Working in this business, you were bound to make enemies sooner or later, and even if the strict enforcement of the “No business on Continental grounds” rule kept things icily civil within the establishments in question, nothing was hindering old adversaries to follow you out into the open the second you crossed the threshold and shoot you in the back of the head.

Maybe Han was right, and someone was currently lodging there who would take offence to their current engagement. Or, worse, Marco was staying there with his crew, that dickhead, and their employer was smart enough to avoid the inevitable fallout should they cross paths again.

“Or maybe our employer just thought it would be hilarious, setting us up with thematically appropriate joint and all. The head’s a properly ordained priest from what I’ve heard. They’re all a bit-” Here, Han drops off and instead makes a gesture that speaks for itself.

When Ricardo doesn’t reply, he gets to his feet in one quick, fluent movement, and grabs hold of his chin, pulling him down to eye-level.

 

“Stop freaking out before anything even happens, fucking hell. I won’t deny that the Continentals are practical, but I’ve managed just fine without them in the past. I got your back, so as long as we don’t fuck up, it’s all fine, right?”

“Right,” Ricardo repeats lamely. He wonders if he could risk leaning in for a kiss, or if he’d get a punch in the liver for the attempt. The results varied wildly with his partner.

Before he can settle on a decision, there’s a knock on the door, and Han retracts his hand just as the door opens. It has no lock, Ricardo noticed upon entering, and neither seem the friars to have the decency to at least wait to be called in. A fantastic place.

“Pardon the intrusion, Fathers, but dinner’s about to be served.” The friar in question is a lanky beanpole who probably looks ten years younger than he actually is, and his pale eyes flicker from either of them to the other with a mixture of nervousness and awe. It was flattering to a degree, Ricardo thinks. Their reputation preceded them even to places like this. “Also, the abbot said he’d be honoured if you would do us the honour of saying prayer on the occasion of your visit.”

Well, fuck.

“Of course, Father Alvarez would be delighted to,” Han says plainly, and Ricardo barely stops himself from freaking out.

 

“Are you crazy, you know I don’t know shit about this that goes beyond saying ‘bless you, my son’ repeatedly, right?!” Ricardo hisses under his breath as they follow the beanpole towards the dining hall.

“And here I thought you went to Sunday school and that’s why you had this idea about impersonating clerics in the first place.” Han’s voice is as smug as his usual neutral tone ever gets, and Ricardo is seething.

“That was fifteen fucking years ago!”

“Whelp, let’s see about your speed reading skills, then.”

Something jabs him in the ribs, and when Ricardo looks down, he finds it’s Han’s phone, and opened is a wikipedia page listing common prayers to say over food.

He’s never felt the urge to murder and kiss a person with such equal measure.

 

* * *

  
  


_J._

 

_Arrival as planned. Will proceed with assignment as agreed upon. Reporting back once finished._

 

_R._

  
  
  
  


_Dear Ricardo,_

 

_Thank you for your status update! I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in New York, and am looking forward to a swift conclusion of this assignment, and maybe future cooperation._

 

_Sincerely,_

_J._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took me so long to update! I’m somewhat in between places at the moment, and also my brain refused to cooperate with this story in anything even resembling a chronological fashion, which conversely should mean future chapters might be up way sooner seeing how a bunch of them are almost finished already. 
> 
> The added M/M category concerns these two characters, not our examiner duo, those two will remain as per canon (take that as you will). 
> 
> And in case you are wondering if I really did use the oldest trick in the book for this plot, the answer is yes. The answer will always be yes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiraga makes a friend, Roberto has a minor crisis, and Lauren hates his life, the church and the mob in varying order.

Roberto wakes naturally before his alarm goes off. For a moment, the pale orange light filtering in through the curtains, just bright enough for him to make out the shapes of the furniture without problems, and the rumbling of traffic in the streets below almost fool him into thinking it’s already past sunrise, but it really is just the constant pulse of this metropolis. People apparently weren’t overstating the “never sleeps” part of the city’s epithet.

He reaches over to the bedside table for his phone. It’s quarter to five, about his normal time of getting up, so he switches off the alarm and goes on to check his emails instead. There’s a reply by the Florence National Library regarding his inquiry about a 18th century tract on Trentino superstitions, a request as to whether he would consider swapping shifts hearing confessions at St. Peter’s with Father Ceruti for the next month, and a forwarded mail sent by the secretary of the St. Cillian’s church confirming that the Vatican’s miracle examiners would be welcome at any time, regardless of their engagements with the Archbishop.

Next to him, Hiraga sighs in his sleep and turns over as if annoyed by the light of the screen. Roberto decides he’ll grant him a grace period of another half hour of rest while he gets ready, and he slips out of the room as quietly as possible.

 

By the time he exits the bathroom, Hiraga has somehow managed to sprawl out diagonally across the bed. In between the too-many pillows - whyever Americans thought that one per person wasn’t sufficient, he’d never understand - Roberto makes out his friend’s head after just a moment of searching, and he leans over to gently shake Hiraga’s shoulder.

“Hiraga.”

There’s a groan, and Hiraga shifts, cracking one eye barely open. 

“Wha’time is it?”

“Time to get up in case we want to at least get a cursory glance at the site of the miracle before we will spend hours talking pleasantries with the higher-ups,” Roberto replies, chipper.

He gets a yawn in return.

Once he’s sure Hiraga isn’t going right back to sleep, he steps away to give him the room to sit up.

“I fell asleep before you came to bed I think. Did Lauren keep you up?”

Not that Lauren should be awake in the early morning hours, either, but then again, nothing about his circumstances was strictly speaking normal.

“Not really, no. I told him about the hotel, and he told me to be careful.” Hiraga rubs his eyes. “I said if anything struck me as suspicious, I’d message him.”

“Well, if this truly was a plan to butter us up, it backfired spectacularly.” Roberto picks up Hiraga’s clothes from where he had carelessly thrown them over one of the chairs and lays them out at the foot of the bed. “If anything, we’re much more aware of any potential attempt at deceit now.”

 

“Successful manipulation of this magnitude requires a very particular skill, that much is certain.”

Hiraga’s tone is unusually cool, and Roberto knows exactly who he is thinking of. For all that Hiraga is full of mercy for all those around him, no matter how severe their trespasses, he seems unwilling to forgive himself for falling for Julia’s silver tongue and warm flattery, even with how often Roberto tried to assure him that it hadn’t been his fault.

“Then again, we are supposed to withhold our judgement until after the fact, so it makes no sense to dwell on it yet, and we’ve learned from the experience,” he tries to take Hiraga’s mind off Father Julia. “In any case, I’m going to head down to the reception to arrange for a taxi, let’s meet up in the breakfast room at 6.15?” 

Hiraga’s reply is a muffled _h_ _mph_ as he pulls his shirt over his head, and with a smile, Roberto leaves their room to head downstairs.

  


Even this early, there’s music playing in the lobby once Roberto exits the lift. The same receptionist as the night before is behind the counter, currently engaged in soft conversation with a posh looking lady who wears sunglasses even in the dim indoor lighting. Roberto wonders if she’s a celebrity, or just trying to appear like one, but it’s not as if he would be able to tell at any rate. 

Most famous people he knows have been dead for some decades at least.

By cadence of their voices alone, he can tell they’re speaking French, and he strolls down the hall until he reaches polite, just-out-of-earshot distance, using his idle time inspecting the stucco work on the ceiling.

“Those look pretty genuine,” someone addresses him, and he looks down again to see a stout elder man in a tweed blazer sitting in one of the low leather seats peer up at him from behind a copy of the New York Times.

“Pardon?”

“Your get-up, I mean.” The man jerks his chin in his general direction and grins. “Where’d you get them done?”

“If they look genuine, that would be because they are,” Roberto explains politely. “It’s the Vatican issued uniform for those serving under the Seat of Saints.”

The man lets out a low whistle.

“You must have very influential contacts, then, right? All the way up?”

There’s a probing tone to that question, but Roberto is unsurprised. There hasn’t been a single mission he had been dispatched to where not at some point he’d been asked whether he knew the Pope personally, or at least all of the Cardinals. It may have taken less than 24 hours this time, but that’s not anywhere close to a new record.

“Not quite that high, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that would certainly be something, for his holiness to hang out with our kind, wouldn’t it?”

The man laughs, an unpleasantly harsh echo within the the soft ambiance of the room, and Roberto wonders what exactly he meant by “our kind”. Before he can press the issue, the sharp clack of heels on the tiled floor draws his attention to where the lady with the sunglasses now stalks over to the lifts.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, already on the move. The man does not call him back.

  


“What can I do for you, Sir?” the receptionist greets him. Now no longer exhausted from hourlong travel, Roberto notes that weirdly, there’s no name tag, neither on the man’s lapel nor anywhere on his counter.

“I was wondering if you could arrange for a taxi to take us to St. Cillian’s at seven,” he says, dragging his eyes from where they stray over the incredibly impersonal and empty space of the man’s desk back to his face. “Just to ensure we don’t end up getting ripped off, I thought it better to ask for your expertise.”

“Of course. If you prefer, I could also get you a car via Aurelio’s shop, clean and ready to use.”

It strikes Roberto as odd that those points would be remarkable about a car rental service, since he very much considers them basic requirements. He knew about the issues with cockroaches in even higher-end apartments within the city, as Hiraga had enthusiastically told him about it on yesterday’s plane trip over lunch, much to Roberto’s questionable enjoyment, but he hadn’t thought cars were subject to similar issues.

“No, as long as we stay within city limits, I think it would be more of a hinderance than a help. But thank you."

“Certainly. I’ll call a civil company we’ve made good experiences with, then,” the man replies, with another one of these slight nods that have Roberto unsure of whether they are vaguely disapproving or neutral courteousness.

“Thank you very much.”

  


When Roberto reaches the breakfast room on the first floor, he finds that the name hardly does it justice. It looks more akin to an upscale fin de siècle restaurant than it does to any communal dining hall he’s ever seen within a hotel, all lovely dark wood panelling, plush carpet, subdued lighting and small round tables hidden under heavy white damask cloths.

He spots Hiraga crouching down next to one of them, busy scratching the ears of what Roberto is fairly certain are about 50 kilograms worth of fighting dog. At least going by the intensity of its wagging, Roberto dares to hope that it’s friendly, especially considering there’s no leash attached to its collar. 

“Hiraga..?”

His partner turns around at his call, beaming.

“Roberto! I was just speaking of you.” He gets to his feet, which requires him gently pushing the dog off his legs, and points at the man sitting at the table, presumably the dog’s owner, whom Roberto only now gives a closer look.  


 

He’s a handsome man a good couple of years Roberto’s senior, although his precise age is hard to guess at. Like pretty much everyone Roberto has seen within the hotel so far, the man’s wearing sharp formal wear that is probably worth half a year Hiraga’s and his salary. His hair and eyes are as dark as Hiraga’s, but he radiates none of his friendly and open disposition.

Rather, the man looks somewhat withdrawn, and not exactly as if he has been looking for company. Of all the tables within the room, only another two are occupied in the far back at this early hour, so there isn’t really a necessity to approach someone about sharing their space. However, he also doesn’t look openly hostile as he meets Roberto’s gaze calmly.

“Roberto, this is John Wick. John, this is my partner, Roberto Nicholas.”

“ _Piacere,_ ” the man says, tone flat. The lack of smugness helps it not come across as if he knew a few stray words of Italian he wanted to show off. No, if Roberto had to guess, it was probably supposed to be a way of being accommodating to strangers.

“ _Altrettanto_ ,” he replies automatically as he catches up with Hiraga. The dog gives him a cursory glance, then flops down again at his master’s side, well-behaved. “I’m surprised to see a place like this allows pets.”

“Usually, no. It’s a special arrangement with management. My house burned down, and until reconstruction is finished, I get to stay here for the time-being.”

Going by his tone, he could also be talking about the weather, not about part of his existence going up in flames. But maybe if you had enough money to permanently rent out a room in a place this expensive and the leverage to get special deals, those kind of things were not as important.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Roberto nevertheless offers, sincerely.

“It was an unfortunate series of happenstances that led to it, but it’s all been dealt with, which is the most important thing.” Wick extends his hand in invitation. “Please, sit.”

  


Hiraga takes him up on the offer without hesitation, and Roberto follows suit. The man’s stand-offish appearance seems a bit misleading, then, because he didn’t have to invite them.

Pretty much the moment they are no longer standing, a waiter in full dress materialises at their sides, handing them a each a heavy leather-bound menu. A quick scan tells Roberto there’s a few more mentions of truffle oil, saffron and caviar than he’d ever expect to see on a breakfast menu on one of his work travels, and his head is reeling with a vague idea of how expensive the ingredients would be.

“I can recommend the French toast,” Wick’s voice draws him back to focus, and Roberto snaps the menu shut before he can give in to luxuria. Maybe not the worst of the cardinal sins, but it was better to not even start.

“Sounds good. That, and a cup of coffee, please.”

“I’ll have black tea and the pancakes, please,” Hiraga orders.

" _Bien sûr._ ”

The waiter leaves them with a bow, and Hiraga picks up conversation again with his usual ease and charm.

  


“So, you said you’ve been to Rome before?”

“On business, a few times, yes.”

Maybe it’s due to the fact that Roberto has spent pretty much his entire life so far in the rather unison surroundings of the church, but he realises he hasn’t the foggiest idea as to what kind of trade this man might be in. He has the nondescript sleek high-class look that could mean anything from board executive to architect to whatever the socialite born to a rich family.

“You should let us know if you’re ever dropping by again, we could meet up.”

“I’m not sure if I can travel in the near future,” Wick says, and there is a dry undertone to his words. “With things being as they are.”

“Rebuilding your life here obviously takes precedent,” Roberto agrees, but from the look he gets in return, he gets the impression that wasn’t what the other meant to imply.

“Your partner said you’re currently working for the church,” he changes topic instead. “I imagine that makes for quite the interesting employment.”

“We’ve been assigned to very unique missions in the past, that’s for sure.”

“This one here seems to be more by-the-books, but then again, you never know in advance, do you?” Hiraga says eagerly, eyes shining. While no doubt he’s still hopeful each time they are called that he’ll witness a true miracle up close, Roberto also thinks that the thrill of solving mysteries even of more mundane variety are just as much responsible for his excitement. But he can’t really judge him for that, since he’s no different. 

“You don’t,” Wick agrees.

 

“Jonathan!” someone calls out at that moment, and Roberto turns his head to see an older gentleman approach their table, looking utterly delighted. “Making new friends, I see.”

Wick looks briefly like he got caught doing something he shouldn’t, but it passes just as quickly.

“Winston,” he says by way of greeting.

“No need to be coy about it, Jonathan,” the man says with a smile, coming to stand next to Wick and patting him on the shoulder in decidedly paternal fashion. Tucked under his other arm, he has a ledger and a tablet, and he peers at Roberto and Hiraga from above the rim of his glasses. “You two must be the our Vatican guests. Are you enjoying your stay so far? Nothing amiss, I hope?”

“He’s management,” Wick supplies, and Roberto deduces that the exception made regarding his dog had more to do with a sort of special treatment in general.

 

“It’s a gorgeous place,” Roberto admits, even as he can see Hiraga grow slightly more alert.

“We were surprised our hosts would put us up with such a high-class place,” he says, tone kind and unassuming as ever, but Roberto can sense the fishhooks inserted into the pleasantries. “Normally, our accommodations tend to be a bit more modest.”

“Ah, you shouldn’t even mention it to your hosts, I’m sure it would be embarrassing to them. We’re not running at full contingency at the moment, so it was more of a mutual favour if anything.” Wick frowns at that, but before he can say anything on the matter, Winston visibly tightens his hold on the man’s shoulder slightly and goes on: “I’m sure no-one intended to make you feel uncomfortable about getting special treatment.”

“I see. I meant no offence, your hotel is incredible.”

 

“None taken, my friend. I’m happy to receive such praise from someone hailing from the beautiful eternal city.” He sighs dramatically. “I’d love to go visit Julius in Rome at some point, but sadly travelling for longer than a few days is impossible until I find a suitable successor for my position here.” 

Roberto does not miss out on the way Winston’s eyes fall on Wick as he says it, and on the way Wick in turn pointedly looks elsewhere. Finding a successor was not the problem, then, rather convincing the chosen heir was. So Wick’s working in the hotel industry, which fit about as well as anything else Roberto guessed.

“It’s a wonderful city, I’m amazed every time I go back,” Hiraga agrees, seemingly more at ease now. 

“Isn’t it? Aah, there comes your breakfast, so I shouldn’t go on bothering you anymore. Jonathan, if you’re done, could I have a word in private?”

“Sure,” Wick gets up, adjusting his jacket and giving his dog a short whistle. “ _Buon appetito_ , and best of luck with your mission.”

Roberto watches the duo depart, the dog staying glued to Wick’s side as they leave for upstairs, but his focus is wavering at the smell of warm maple syrup and freshly ground coffee. Hiraga’s expression of pure bliss as he takes his first bite have Roberto wonder if he should feel vaguely jealous of the cook or instead grateful that apparently he’ll be treated to first-grade cuisine without having to work for it for once.

 

Stealing a bit from Hiraga’s plate, he decides it’s definitely a mixture of both.

 

 

* * *

 

  


**RE: [!] Breach of Continental Rules**

 

> To management,

 

> it’s been brought to my attention that your establishment’s currently hosting two uninitiated

> civilians, either due to a grave misunderstanding or with malicious intent on part of those

> who invited them. I’d rather they remain ignorant, and live. I attached vetted identification

> of the individuals in question. As for myself, I used to work as a consultant for your Roman

> branch a few times in the past, so I should still be listed within the ledgers, although as of

> the last few years I’ve been working an exclusive contract arrangement outside

> Continental resources.

 

> Di Luca

 

> P. S.: Apologies for hacking your internal communications network, but this was a matter of

> urgency. Your firewall could do with some security updates.

  


 

_Dear Signore Di Luca,_

_with great perturbation I realised that you are indeed correct about the two guests in question. I apologise that the usual security measures set for keeping laypersons out of our establishment seem to have failed in this case. It appears to be simply a curious case of a mix-up between them and an expected party from what I can tell, so I don’t suspect it was foul play. As long as we cannot tell for sure, however, I do think they are less at risk if not relocating. I informed my trusted vital staff of the fact, and they will see to your friends not encountering anything out of the ordinary during their stay. Additionally, I will ensure their safety until their return on my own cost as an apology for this oversight._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Winston C.,_

_Continental Management_

_P. S.: Understanding that this was an exceptional case, I will let your trespassing slide, although I do advise you to not try again in the future. If you ever find yourself ending your exclusive contract, however, I would be delighted to employ your services._

  


Lauren leans back in his chair with a long exhale of relief. It wasn’t as if he had been sincerely worried about retribution - while he has little doubt that, considering the amount of corruption within the church he’s witnessed either due to his commissioned work on the Vatican’s main servers or thanks to his side-job as Hiraga’s field assistant, there certainly are some people in this godforsaken theocratic state that have, or at least had, at some point, contacts in Continental circles, his current circumstances ironically double as a prime safe house.

No-one would go through all the trouble of getting to him over just some hacked email accounts, no, that was just waste of resources. Well, at least no-one in the leadership of the Continentals would, he’s not sure about the High Table. They tended to be overly dramatic like that, all vendetta this and undying loyalty that, even in these modern times.

 

If there is one thing that could annoy him as much as overbearing Catholics, it’s the Mafia, and their shared love of everything pomp and circumstance is probably the main reason for that. Lauren vividly remembers the one time he met with the weapon’s dealer of Rome’s Continental to talk business. By the fourth second he realised that no, the man’s gimmick of using that nonsense wine snob poetry on his weaponry was in fact not exclusively reserved for his customers. Lauren lasted five minutes before a comparison between anthrax and champagne finally made him walk out. How could one dial down efficiency so much just for the sake of aesthetics, he’d never understand.

No, his relief stems from knowing that he had done all that he could in his position to try and ensure Hiraga won’t die. It’s mildly irritating to acknowledge the risk he just took for his sake is based on such a sentimental reason, because looked at it from a more rational standpoint, no matter how mildly interesting his talks with Hiraga might be, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t live on just fine if something happened to the man.

 

Nevertheless, the thought of him getting hurt just didn’t seem right.

 

The feeling of satisfaction fades into the background as he crouches back over his desk again, full focussed. Management said they thought it might be pure coincidence, but Lauren has been there for one too many times, watching from afar as Hiraga and his partner stumbled across large scale, far reaching conspiracies, to be able to buy into that assessment too quickly.

 

It was prime time to look into the people surrounding this alleged miracle on his own, he thinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had been pretty much finished early on, that’s why the update is this quick. Until writing this, the possibility of John succeeding Winston never occurred to me, although it solves, like, all of his problems (apart from not wanting to get entangled with the underworld in the first place, but it’s a little too late for that in general, isn’t it). Anyway, I’m stealing Honest Trailer’s “Winston Churchkill” for this, if only for the abbreviated version. That’s all for now!


End file.
